


Hell's Reign

by BakerBitches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2324333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerBitches/pseuds/BakerBitches





	Hell's Reign

He stared at the sky. It had been the brightest blue he’d ever seen grace the clouds in London in the past days, but today, it was dark, threatening a torrential downpour on the passerby. Sherlock was sure that John enjoyed the good weather from the days prior. He could imagine with great detail John soaking up the sun he saw very little of, walking through a park and admiring the people sitting on benches and in the grass. Sherlock let his hands run through the fresh dirt under him and thought absently that rain would be good for the blades of green that had yet a chance to grow, careful to keep the filter of his cigarette out of the crumbs of dirt.

 

He could feel his mobile vibrate for the upteenth time, and scowled. _They know where to find me, why are they calling?_ Sherlock reached into his pocket and pressed the volume button on his device, effectively ceasing the vibrations. Leaning his head back and taking a long drag, he ran through the process of being shot to remove his attention from the annoying buzz that came again almost instantly.

 

_Bullet leaves gun (pistol) at a velocity of a specific foot-per-second. It hits a target with a force of: pre-impact velocity minus post-impact velocity, multiplied by the mass of a bullet, divided by bullet’s time between the gun and target. Example: 158gr(790 feet-per-second **-** 0 feet-per-second [bullets come to a near-deadstop when coming in contact with something when they are of smaller caliber])/.0007s, multiplied by .000004 [conversion weight for grains-to-pounds]. Force is 713 pounds, effectively ripping through a chest cavity. Placement of bullet: sternum. Chest bone shattered, ribs 2 and 3 dislocated, vibrations/shock waves tear both lungs and sever left pulmonary artery from heart.  Example’s prognosis: fatal, dead within three and a half minutes, conscious for only one._

 

A raindrop startled Sherlock out of his equation, the cool water sliding off of his forehead and down his hairline. Lifting his head, he stared out in front of him into the dark air, watching as thick sheets of water approached his position in waves. _John_ , he thought with a smile, _is probably glad he isn’t getting wet._ He could feel the ground under him become slick as dirt turned to mud. It seeped through the bottom of his trousers and mottled his shiny shoes, and his shirt collar stuck to his neck. The cherry on his cigarette stopped glowing and Sherlock barked out a pained laugh. _Figures. John doesn’t like it when I smoke. Bloody rain._

 

An hour passed and the rain refused to let up. Sherlock was soaked through, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t feel the cold that was sending tremors through his body or how warm his face was compared to the rest of him, or the stones cutting into his palms from kneading into the mud with rain-softened hands. It was all lost on him, so when a few minutes passed and the sky was no longer dark from just rain, but also the night, when Lestrade appeared in front of him, nearly as soaked as himself, offering a hand, he felt like he was floating above London with the realization that those “minutes” were actually hours.

 

“Come on, mate,” Lestrade murmured. “You’ve been here all day.” And with a short glance away, he continued with: “He’d raise hell if you caught pneumonia.”

 

Sherlock was about to retort back that a virus would also have to be introduced for one to contract pneumonia, but his words caught and came out as a small sob, and he felt defeated for yet another countless time. He let his body slump over into the grass that was slowly being invaded by mud via the water, forehead ground into the sod as he pounded his hand over and over into the turf, broken noises leaving his throat.

 

Sherlock registered being pulled to his feet and into a chest and continued to wail. He felt humiliated, ruined by his explosion, but he could suppress none of the embarrassing cries that wracked his being.

  
After what seemed like an eternity, his episode calmed down enough for Sherlock to regain some coherency and let himself be steered out of the graveyard, away from John Watson’s newly erected headstone.


End file.
